


Goodbye

by Princessedelarue



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessedelarue/pseuds/Princessedelarue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a dream oldpanmcgucket (McGuck) mentioned having on tumblr (no, really) - here's something that could have happened post-series that, lucky for everyone involved, didn't. </p><p>Everyone knows the government never sleeps - how could we have ever expected them to forget?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [McGuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McGuck/gifts).



Gravity Falls’ police station sure was ugly.

The cracked plaster on the ceiling, the gritty, stained grey carpet that every post office and bank in the world had in their lobbies, the dusty furniture forty years’ worth of vandals had carved their names into… The place was overdue for a makeover.

Mabel would have a field day in here, Stan knew. Next summer, if he managed to talk the kids’ folks into letting them come back (they were a little beat up when they went home – normal, back-country living, Dipper had told them, and next year it could really be true) he’d sick her on this place for an afternoon. Blubs would look a hell of a lot better covered in glitter.

(Can’t look any worse.)

Of course, if Stan had just been dealing with dumb ol’ Sheriff Blubs here, he would have been home hours ago. Not sitting in handcuffs on this stiff wooden chair all night with a federal agent glaring at him. 

A federal agent that was looking more and more impatient by the hour.

“I’m only going to ask this _once_ more, Pines,” Powers spat from across the table, “What were you doing with all that waste?” 

It was the twelfth time Powers had asked that, and the fourth time he’d said it would be the last, so Stan wasn’t exactly worried about the vague threat implied by that tone. Powers’ eyes, though…they were over-dilated, a little glassy, sort of _wild_. In all of his sixty or seventy (or whatever) years, Stan had seen only a handful of men get that look in their eyes and it had never ended well for him.

The man across from him was desperate. Desperate men did crazy things when provoked. He knew he should tread lightly here.

But Stan has never been good at being careful.   

“I deal with a lot of trash in my line of work, Mack. You’re gonna have to be a little more spe–”

The slap (backhanded, to the jaw, force of freight train) caught Stan off guard, though it really shouldn’t have; feigning ignorance after hours of mind-numbingly repetitive interrogation about the very specific twenty gallons of industrial waste he’d lifted over the summer from the treatment plant on Farside Road _was_ pretty dumb.

Still, that _stung_.

“ _Ow!_ What the –”

Stan would never be sure what caused the spike of pain that shot through his skull then, if it was whiplash from being jerked forward by his jacket collar or just overstimulation from having Powers scream right in his face, but it didn’t really matter. What mattered was how that pain _blinded_ him for several, long seconds, where the only things left in the world were white heat and the ramblings of a desperate man echoing in his ear. 

“Do you think this is a _game?_ Do you know how long I’ve been searching for this – how much I’ve lost?  Do you have any idea what it’s like to have people look at you like you’re crazy, when you _know_ something’s missing, something –”

A door opening behind Stan caught Powers’ attention. The agent moved away from him, out of his air space, and it allowed him to finally catch his bearings.

But only for a moment.

Because that was Powers’ younger counterpart at the door (‘Trigger’ he’d called him; it had to be a fake name), saying something that Stan probably should have been paying more attention to, and looping through the halls behind him was a high-pitched, nasally, _panicked_ voice that Stan would recognize anywhere.

 _“– didn’t come home last night! Please,_ please, _you gotta help me find him, I-I don’t –”_

Fiddleford.


End file.
